


Parachute

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 07, Sick Sam Winchester, ohsamtripleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:33:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's sick, hallucinating, and Dean's there to slow down the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parachute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sharktheory](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sharktheory).



> **_A/N:_** There's a [Triple Play Challenge](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/659989.html) on Livejournal's **ohsam** comm. In which the goal is to have both art and fic for a three-part prompt. 
> 
> My fill is for **sharktheory** 's [prompt](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/659989.html?thread=3741461#t3741461):
> 
>   1. Abandoned warehouse, etc.
>   2. Dean (and Bobby, if your muse so desires)
>   3. "I tried everything. That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right? You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, and I couldn't stop it." (Lazarus Rising) Dean finds Sam halfway through Misguided Insane Attempt To Get Dean Back #341 - maybe it's a blood spell, a sacrifice, whatever. It's messy and Sam's delirious.
> 

> 
> Special thanks to **quickreaver** not only for the glance-through and catching stupid mistakes because I wrote this on the fly, but also for being such a spectacular mod and host. Also, **sharktheory** , I hope this little thing makes your day all bright and shiny!
> 
>  ** _Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada.

Dean jiggles the doorknob, sandwiching it between his wrist and thigh, one arm in a cheap cloth sling from when he’d dislocated his shoulder the other night, the other hand full of plastic bags, and the door opens inwards. The room is dark and Sam’s bed is empty, little brother nowhere to be seen. Dean lets out a soft exhale of equal parts frustration and worry. It was a little too much to expect his sick brother to stay put, especially since he was hallucinating Lucifer. And damn if he doesn’t feel a tiny bit abandoned. Shutting down that track of thought, he takes the few steps to the small table and sets down his wares — a couple of ridiculously tiny white plastic bags with CVS emblazoned on them in red — and slips off his sling now that Sam isn’t there to bitch at him about it. He paws through the bags; they’re filled with all the front-line defenses for a cold: generic store-brand acetaminophen, Nyquil, overpriced Airborne stuff that he’s convinced is glorified Alka-Seltzer but Sam swears by, and some Flintstone chewable vitamins like Dad used to get them forever ago and stopped as soon as they both lost their baby teeth because it was cutting into the ammo budget.

He reaches over and switches on the floor lamp that he’s really pretty sure should’ve been thrown out with the 80’s and turns around.

Sam’s on his knees between the two beds, hunched over at such an angle that there was no way Dean could’ve seen him from the door. He’s bowed over a single, flickering candle, hands turned palms-up in supplication. There’s a steady litany of “No. Don’t. Take me, please,” coming from his throat all garbled in that way Dean really doesn’t like. He’s about to move in, to shake Sam’s shoulder, when he sees Sam reach beside him, hand slipping under the bed and withdrawing a large bowl filled up to the brim with what seems like…

“No,” Dean feels the word get caught up in his throat all hoarse and breathless and coming out as air. In slow motion, he sees Sam lift the bowl with both hands and bring it to his mouth, tilting it toward him, the dark viscous liquid already passing through his lips. Sam gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and Dean leaps forwards, hands outstretched, knocking the bowl away. Sam’s hands lose their grip and the bowl hits the mattress beside him, falling to the floor. Instantly, purple blooms on the yellowed sheets, Sam’s light gray t-shirt, boxers, and soaks into a wide, dark patch on the carpet where it turns into a dull, indeterminate maroon. Dean sniffs at the violet droplets on his hands, wrists, and licks them. _Grape juice_. _Fucking grape juice_. He crouches close to Sam, preparing to apologize when he notices the stain on the floor bisects some lines that look as though they’d been drawn on with a sharpie. He tracks them with his eyes; taking in its shape — a pentagram — following the lines up to the now-extinguished candle, empty, overturned bowl. It sinks in. Sam’s still staring straight ahead, as though in a trance, not registering his presence or the wreckage surrounding them. 

“Fucking Hell,” Dean whispers. “What did you _do_ , Sam?” Gentling his tone while simultaneously raising his volume, he repeats Sam’s name several times, then: “Sammy? C’mon, man, you’re scaring me, here…”

Sam startles, blinks, and Dean’s got his hands around his brother before Sam faceplants.

“Wanna tell me what you were doin’?” He keeps his tone light, conversational, tamping down on his panic. He really doesn’t need a Sam who’s gone all rogue and darkside on him. Not again. Not after they’ve found their footing and got another apocalypse to avert. “I dunno about you but that looked like some seriously dark voodoo. And last I checked, you hunted witches and not…” he flaps his hand abortively at the mess. Sam stops trying to rock out of his grip, peers up at him with squinting, bloodshot eyes in a flushed, sweaty face. Dean shifts his hands, aware of the heat radiating from his brother. _Fever_. _Awesome_.

“Dean?” Sam says finally, nine kinds of lost and wrecked.

“In the flesh.” Dean tries for a grin but it falls off his face immediately as though it’s too heavy for his muscles to hold up even though it supposedly takes less effort to smile than frown. Instead of calming Sam, the words only make him more agitated. 

“No, no, no,” Sam babbles. “You swore. You fucking swore you wouldn’t use his face. Dean’s in Hell and I gotta get him out. Please, please, please…” the words descend into harsh, hitching sobs as Sam scrabbles for the ruined summoning candle. 

Dean catches Sam’s wrists with his hands, arresting his brother’s movements with the bonus effect of making Sam look up. Dean unwraps one hand, the other still squeezing Sam’s wrists. He reaches to his ankle, extracts the silver dagger there, and hefts it. “Look at me,” he commands. “It’s me and I’m out, I promise. Nothing bad’s gonna happen, okay. I’m gonna prove it to you but I need you to trust me, okay? Stone number one.”

Sam nods, swallowing air desperately, his face all red and splotchy and snotty. There are still tears streaming down his cheeks.

Dean releases Sam and slices across his own forearm. Instantly, blood wells up and he clamps his palm down on the bleeding. He searches Sam’s eyes and sees the moment it clicks. Sam crumples and suddenly he’s got an armful of sticky, sweaty little brother.

“I thought…” Sam hiccups somewhere in the vicinity of his ribs, voice muffled by the flannel.

“I’m out,” Dean cuts him off. “I’ve been out for a couple of years. Don’t worry.”

“But…” Sam’s voice is watery as Dean hauls him to his feet. “But it was supposed to be me. I tried, Dean. I tried _so hard_.”

Dean lowers him to the edge of the not-spattered bed. “You did good, Sam,” he says gruffly. “You were the one who prayed. It worked.” He strips Sam of his juice-stained shirt and makes sure his swaying brother isn’t about to topple over before grabbing the bag from the table. He tears into the package of Tylenol, pries off the childproof cap and digs out the cotton ball, tipping two pills into his clean palm. He offers them to Sam, who swallows them dry. By the time Sam’s finished, Dean’s got the bottle of Nyquil out and already ripping through the safety seal with his canines. Not bothering with the little plastic measuring cup, he hands the bottle to Sam, who takes a generous swig of the stuff. Sam holds the medicine dazedly for a moment before Dean takes it back. Sam lies down, looking like roadkill.

“Get some sleep,” Dean says, voice coming out rougher than he’d intended.

Two hours later, he rouses Sam, loads him into the Impala where he slumps instantly against the passenger window, congested breath fogging up the glass on every exhale, and tears out of there, leaving the occult stuff under the bed with a grape-juice-stained coverlet for the maid to dispose. The pressure bandage bites into his forearm, almost cutting off the blood flow to his hand, and he drives.

“Not going anywhere,” he tells Sam.


End file.
